


Waiting for Superman

by Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot



Series: Getting Used To It [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Classism, Gen, Minor Police Brutality, Police, stereotyping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot/pseuds/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set about 20 years before the main story, Smoker is a young punk from Loguetown, and that is apparently all anyone needs to judge him, no matter what he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Superman

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Waiting for Superman by Daughtry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXjXKT98esw) and beta'd by my wonderful ducky, [Ember](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacialis_Quasar)!!

If he had to pinpoint when it began, he always guessed that it started with the guy on the fourteenth floor, standing on the ledge, woozy and losing his balance in the hot summer sunshine. He’d been a punk with a chip on his shoulder, something to prove to a city that didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He and the other punks he hung out with rode up on their 10-speeds, hassling each other about the crowd gathered underneath the building, pointing and shouting. Of course they’d looked up. Of course, he had been the one to really notice. And of course, he had tossed his bike to the side and dashed up the fourteen flights of stairs, thrown his too-big-for-his-age bulk against the privacy chain, and grabbed the guy back in through the open window.

He’d gotten a punch to the nose and a collection of racial slurs thrown in his face for the effort, but… the guy was alive. That was all that mattered.

When he met up with the others, Shanks had hooked an arm around his neck, lifting his stolen beer bottle and crowed out “Look at this wannabe Superman!”

He’d shrugged him off, gruff and embarrassed. Any of the others would have done the same if they’d thought of it. It wasn’t like he could just leave the guy up there to fall when it was obvious he really hadn’t wanted to jump.

But that was the beginning of it really.

From that point on, he was the one that noticed things. He shoved the girl out of the way when Moria’s brakes failed. He was the one that scaled the tree after Borsalino’s cat got stuck in it. He found Tsuru’s phone and fished it out of the gutter when the old woman was sure it’d been stolen.

And he was the one that saw her.

Huddled behind the dumpster, just this side of Grey Terminal, with a pack of Juice zombies trying to get at her. Her hair was a mess, her clothes, while scuffed and dirty from her hiding spot, were modest, and she was clutching, of all things, a sword to her chest like a security blanket.

“C’mon, man, you don’t wanna get involved in that.” Buggy tugged on his jacket sleeve, looking nervous as usual.

Shanks shook his head, “It ain’t worth it.”

“Juicers never fight fair.” Mihawk intoned with an arched eyebrow, as though that was the most important part of the whole situation.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stalling for time by lighting another cigarette, and they all knew what he was thinking. Shanks groaned, leaning on Kuzan, and Buggy flung his arm over his face in an overdramatic protest. But Mihawk gave a nod, and slipped his switchblade from his pocket with a subtle _shnkt_.

Smoker rolled his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles before going in. “OI! Leave’er alone, assholes!”

As one the pack of zombies looked up, a new target in their sights, and his pretty leather jacket would fetch a decent price on the black market.

The girl tried to call out to him, but one of the druggies kicked the dumpster, knocking her back against the grimy brick wall, which made her trip over the end of the sword and fall, her legs splayed out under the dumpster and her glasses askew on her face. The bastard cackled like a hyena, and he and a girl that was more skeleton than muscle jumped Smoker when his eyes flicked to check on the girl.

He flipped the guy into his female partner, shoving both of them back with a skid of worn rubber on concrete, and bounced his elbow into a third that thought to come up from behind while he was distracted. The fourth got the idea to dive at his legs, and he jumped, landing in the middle of the bastard’s back with a sickening crunch. By then hyena-boy and his girlfriend were back, trying to tag team him, and he got a good grip on the girlfriend’s shirt.

“Y-you wouldn’t hit a-a lady would’ya?” She stammered to his raised fist. “Ain’t gentlemanly, yeah?”

“Good thing ya ain’t a lady.” Smoker growled, and slammed his knuckles into her face, breaking her boyfriend’s nose on the re-bound.

Tossing her towards the end of the alley, the others scrambled after her, not _quite_ whimpering like the dogs they were, and hyena-boy spat blood over his shoulder, “You’ll be sorry, Superman!”

The group ran headlong into the rest of Smoker’s friends when they turned the corner, and Buggy barked at them, drawing a high-pitched squeal from one as they took off running deeper into Grey Terminal where the cops wouldn’t go.

Shanks, Kuzan, and Mihawk closed the distance between them and Smoker, though the last kept a close eye on the end of the alley, clearly expecting more trouble. Or possibly hoping for it? Considering the way he kept thumbing over the blade of his knife. Kuzan placed a hand on Mihawk’s wrist, and a silent conversation had the would-be swordsman putting the weapon away.

Buggy laughed loud enough to echo off the building walls, “Did’ja see how they ran!? Scared ‘em off like a bunch of flashy wimps we did! They won’t mess with the likes of us again, that’s for damn sure!”

Smoker rolled his eyes when Shanks smacked the back of Buggy’s head, and ignored their argument in favor of pulling on the dumpster. “You a’ight?”

The girl scrabbled to her feet, holding the sword out with the pommel facing him, and shoved her glasses up on her nose with the other hand. “I-I-I’ll cut you! Get back!!”

“Right…” Smoker raised an eyebrow at the _sheathed and backwards_ sword. “Well, if yer fine, see ya around.” And he moved to collect his crew.

“W-wait!” She cried. “I-I… I’m lost.”

Smoker looked at the others, Shanks shrugged, “Well she’s hot in a sort of nerdy kind of way. I mean if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Oi.” Kuzan rumbled, towering above them all.

Shanks laughed nervously, “Which I’m not! Honest! Tits do nothing for me! And she doesn’t have much anyway! Barely mosquito bites. NOT THAT I LOOKED!”

Buggy laughed, teasing him by poking his cheek as Kuzan simply let the redhead continue rambling on about how very NOT attracted to girls he was, and even if he was, she wasn’t his type anyway. NOT THAT HE WAS ATTRACTED TO GIRLS THOUGH!

Again Smoker rolled his eyes, especially as the girl seemed to look more and more like she wanted to take the sword and shove it up Shanks’ ass. Smoker grabbed a hold of it, and started pulling towards the other end of the alley, “C’mon.”

“H-HEY! WAIT! Wh-where are we going!?” She protested, predictably stumbling after him rather than letting go of the sword.

“Takin’ ya home.” Smoker grumbled.

As they crossed out of Grey Terminal and up towards where the streets got cleaner Buggy and the others stopped walking. The blue-haired coward shook his head, hiding behind Kuzan with the kind of expression that meant it would take serious cash to change his mind. Unfortunately, Shanks held onto his current boyfriend’s hand, stopping Ice Man from following any further either.

Mihawk’s scowl drew that much darker, “Perhaps the girl would be find making her own way from here.”

Smoker scoffed. “Ya punks’re afraid a Foosha.” He shook his head, tightening his grip on the girl’s arm, “Whatever. Fuck ya later.”

He marched across the street and up past the shops. The sun had slid down below the tops of the buildings, reflecting on the East Blue to shine gold flames down the side streets. It lit across his hair like a halo.

“Wow…” The girl breathed, nearly stumbling behind him.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“What of it.” Unconsciously his shoulders hunched and he walked a little faster. It was genetic thing. He couldn’t help it that it turned white before he was fifteen.

She gave a small cry, falling into his arm, and she blinked owlishly up at him over her glasses when he caught her. “It’s beautiful.”

For a moment, he thought something like that about her eyes, but instead he snorted, and set her back on her feet. If there was a touch of color on the rims of his ears, he would never admit to it for as long as he lived.

“Let’s just get ya home.”

However, he did slow up his pace a little. He may or may not have been a little more conscious of how fast she could walk. He didn’t make any more conversation, but he did keep an eye on her. And by the time they’d passed up into the bigger houses, the ones with yards, he’d let her arm slip so they were holding hands instead.

“It’s the… the next block. The third house. With… um… the blue on the porch.” She was so quiet, if he hadn’t been focused on listening, he never would have heard her.

But he nodded, glancing at the Black-n-White that was on the corner as they crossed with the signal.

That was his first and only warning.

The next thing he knew, he had two Uniforms holding him against the side of her house, with a nightstick under his chin, and someone screaming his right to remain silent in his ear. They were big, easily twice his size, and that was saying something for the seventeen-year-old with biceps like a linebacker.

Off to the side, his peripheral vision caught the girl tugging on someone’s arm, and yelling, pointing wildly at him.

She’d dropped her sword, and the only thought that went through his head as the cops hauled him back towards their squad car was that it was a shame she’d protected it from the dirt of Grey Terminal, only for it to get scuffed now. Then he was shoved into the back of the car, just barely missing connecting his temple with the frame, and the bulletproof glass blocked all but the sound of sounds outside. He watched her through the foggy window, hoping she remembered to pick up her sword before somebody stepped on it. It looked expensive.

“Okay, son, get goin’!”

“Huh?” His eloquent answer to them hauling him out of the car again was the summation of his confusion.

“You’re free to go. The girl says you brought her home. So go on. Get out of here. You don’t belong up here.”

Smoker blinked, but didn’t have to be told a third time, straightening his jacket by putting his hands in his pockets. He started to walk off down the street away from the group of them. Popping his collar wasn’t necessarily a defensive movement, but it made him feel better anyway.

“Hey!” Suddenly her hand was on his arm, and he let her pull him back around.

He raised an eyebrow at her as she chew on her lip, shoved her glasses back up her nose, and blushed brighter than the dying sun. Then all at once, she bounced up onto her tiptoes, kissed his cheek, and darted away again.

Tilting his head slightly to the side, he blinked a few times.

Once up on her porch, she grabbed her sword back from her mother, and waved enthusiastically at him, “LOOK ME UP LATER!! MY NAME’S TASHIGI!”

He never actually did. The looks on the police officers in response to her words was enough to put him off. In fact, he never ventured beyond the shops and Madam Shyarly’s boutique until much much later, when he had his own uniform, and Tashigi had sought _him_ out at the academy.

Though that wasn’t the last time he found himself on the business end of a nightstick.

When Nojiko’s purse got snatched and he ran down the asshole that did it, she had to come barreling up the street and knock out the guy or the stupid pig that interrupted him would’ve let the perp get away. She actually almost wound up with an ‘assaulting an officer’ charge because she used her bag to smack the officer across the shoulder for collaring Smoker instead.

Then there was the time Shanks got caught with booze he’d stolen from Eddy’s bar. Again, the cops took one look at Smoker and assumed he was responsible as well.

Each time, all it did was harden his resolve to get out of FBC. He counted the days down until he turned eighteen and worked every hour he could pick up at Shiki’s garage. He had his eye on the black pick-up at the end of the lot. Ten spent on smokes to fuel his habit, and the rest into a pillow case for the truck. A couple more months and he’d be free. He’d give it all to Shiki, and be gone. Head out for the west coast maybe. He didn’t care. He was tired of being the target for pigs.

Until the day before his birthday.

The Uniform that marched into the garage was graying at the temples, and had enough brass on his chest that Smoker wondered if he’d even be able to swim if he fell in a puddle. He stepped right up to Shiki like he knew the man, and from where Smoker was tucked under a jeep with a transmission issue he couldn’t hear what they were talking about. But the next thing he knew, Shiki’s pegleg smacked his knee.

“Hunter! Get’cher ass up here! Th’fuck you into now?” The gold-haired mechanic spat off to the side with a sneer.

“Nobody calls me by m’ real name.” Smoker murmured, watching the cop warily.

“S’illegal fer you ta be smokin’ fer ‘nother twenty-fer hours. Go on!”

“I’m goin’! I’m goin’! Don’t get yer panties bunched!”

“Watch’t boy! I’ll shove m’leg up yer ass s’far it’ll—“

Cutting Shiki off, the Uniform stomped ungracefully up to the taller, if younger, man, “Hunter—“

“Call me Smoker.” The seventeen-year-old rolled his shoulder, popping it after having been working upside down for several hours.

A suspicious frown clouded the cop’s features for a few moments, then he burst out into hearty laughter, clapping Smoker on the shoulder. “Good lad! Stand up for yourself! Yes!”

Wariness barely covered his surprise when the policeman did nothing aggressive towards him. “What d’ya want wit’ me?”

“Straight to the point. Good. Walk with me, son.”

“M’not yer son.” He muttered, but let the man direct him out to the parking lot and to his cruiser, where he fished a bag of rice crackers from under his seat.

After being declined when he offered to share, the man spoke around them, “My offer is simple. Come to the academy. Join the force.”

“Why in th’ seven Hells would I do that?! Are ya out a yer mind, old man!?” Smoker nearly choked.

“Garp.” The cop said around another cracker. “And because we need punks like you.” After a moment where he swallowed and Smoker continued to fight off the urge to cough, Garp continued, “Truth is, son, I’ve seen your record, and even though you weren’t charged any of those times they hauled you in, you are what a lot of the district calls a target. Wild haired teenagers with a certain attitude that makes rookie cops gun-happy. Frankly, it’s a wonder you haven’t been shot or worse.”

“Yer really sellin’ yerself, Pops.” Smoker scoffed, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up, in spite of being in front of the cop.

“That’s my point. It needs to change, and the only way it’s gonna do that is if punks like you, who grew up as targets, join the force and change it. Too many teenagers get collared on my watch for shit they didn’t do.” Garp stashed the crackers and flicked his fingers. “Gimme one.”

The teen obliged, lighting it and frowning.

A smile pulled at the cop’s mouth when he took his first drag, “With people like you on the team, I figure they’d get a little more understanding and a little less time. If you catch my meaning?”

“Look. I get ya.” Smoker shook his head, “But… I can’t afford t’go ta some fancy college academy bullshit. I’mma Loguetown punk, and th’ last thing yer force needs is me. All I’ll do is get inta fights wit’ them prep boys what got in on Daddy’s name.”

“That’s part of my offer, son. I’ll pay your way through the academy, and you go right ahead and get into those fights. That’s what those namby pamby boys need to remind them this job isn’t for suck ups looking to make Daddy proud.” Garp seemed thoroughly disgusted, “Shake the place up, give it a good cleaning. That’s what I’m coming to you for.” He dug a card out of his pocket, “Look, give it some thought. Talk it over with your crew, and get back to me. Any of them want to join up, tell them the same offer applies to them. I’ll fund your way through the academy and you boys clean up my force. Alright, Superman?”

The cop left him there, not even giving him a chance to answer.

And three months later, Smoker and Kuzan were paired as partners for basic training at Four Blues University, enrolled in both law enforcement and the ROTC. The man who’d recruited him turned out to be the right hand to the police commissioner, and training under him was almost worse than running from the pigs on the street. But it was worth it.

Because not two years into his assignment in Kokoyashi he found out exactly what Garp had meant by target. The boy was a green-haired punk with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove to a city that didn’t want to hear what he had to say.


End file.
